“We’ll get right on it,” Justine replied. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to read this file,” I said, brandishing the envelope Faduma had given me. “Probably grab a bite to eat.”
“Pizza?” she asked.
“Maybe. What else would a person eat in Rome?” I joked. “Maybe we’ll come here for a trip one day? Do a tour of Europe.”
“I’d like that,” Justine replied. “I’d like that a lot.”
She hesitated, and I felt the weight of her unspoken words tug at my heart. She missed me, but she knew this separation was the price of the job. I felt the same way.
“This will be over soon,” I said. “And then I’ll be back home.”
“I can’t wait,” she replied. “I’m going to go brief Mo-bot. Send me the files. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I responded, before she hung up.
I used my phone to take photos of the dossier Faduma had given me, and once I’d sent everything over to Justine via Private’s secure email server, I settled into my seat and started to read about the dead priests.
Chapter 33
Eight priests.
Eight good men.
At least that’s what the dossier told me. I slept poorly that night. Dreams of the helicopter crash in Afghanistan that ended my military career morphed with the heart attacks and accidents that were supposed to have killed these priests. Apart from Brambilla, who had clearly not died from natural causes or by accident, the other men had met early, but seemingly not suspicious, ends. Only Faduma had picked up a connection: the men had all died in and around Rome in the last three months while on missions from their home dioceses overseas. They were travelers visiting the city on what one might reasonably assume was Church business or else pilgrimage.
I was still waiting for Mo-bot to report, but there didn’t seem to be any other obvious link between the men, at least not according to the information Faduma had provided.
I woke many times in the night, haunted by the faces of the priests who merged into the memories of fallen comrades and victims of past crimes I’d investigated. I finally fell into a deep sleep as dawn broke, waking a couple of hours later as tired as if I’d never slept at all.
I gathered the photos and papers scattered across my bed and returned them to the envelope. After showering and getting dressed in one of my new lightweight suits, I went downstairs, walked a few blocks in the morning sunshine, and hailed a cab to Vatican City.
I picked my way through the crowds of pilgrims and tourists gathered in front of St Peter’s and passed through the security checkpoint by the north colonnade.
I walked along Via Sant’Anna until I reached the Vatican Bank headquarters.
“I’d like to see Joseph Stadler,” I said to the receptionist. “My name is Jack Morgan. I don’t have an appointment.”
I waited in the luxurious vaulted lobby, admiring the paintings, until Christian Altmer came through the lobby security gates. He wore a navy blue suit and a matching shirt and was as somber as an undertaker. When he saw me, he pinned a fake smile on his face.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said, offering me his hand. “Mr. Stadler has a busy day, but he can give you ten minutes.”
“I’m grateful,” I replied.
I followed him through to the ancient building and there was no small talk this time.
We took the elevator and passed through the outer office where Stadler’s executive team studiously ignored me while Altmer led me into his boss’s suite.
Stadler was by the window, looking out over Via del Telegrafo, but he turned when we entered and greeted me with a warm smile.
“Mr. Morgan, this is a welcome surprise.”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but I need your help with something.”
“Please have a seat. Drink?”
“No, thank you. I won’t be long,” I replied, and stayed standing. “I have reason to believe Father Brambilla was one of eight priests murdered here in Rome.”
Stadler’s eyes widened, and Altmer’s mouth gaped in shock.
“I believe Filippo Lombardi started looking into these murders,” I said, taking care not to reveal Faduma’s role in identifying the victims. “I think that may be why he was killed.”
“Priests?” Stadler asked incredulously. “Eight priests?”
I nodded.
“Such a thing would be an outrage against God,” he suggested.
“A great crime,” Altmer agreed.
“If I give you their names, can you arrange for Church records to provide me with any details of how these men might be connected?” I asked.
Stadler nodded emphatically. “Of course. Christian will get you whatever you need.”
Altmer nodded. “I am here to help you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, with all the sincerity of a fairground barker.
I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and gave it to the younger man. “These are the priests. Beside each name is their diocese and the date of their death.”
“I will get to work on this immediately,” he said, before leaving the room.
Stadler walked slowly toward his desk and eased himself into his chair, clearly shaken. “I hope you’re wrong, Mr. Morgan. I truly do.”
“So do I,” I replied. “So do I.”
Chapter 34
I left the bank puzzling over the fate of the priests. Altmer said he would phone me if he found anything, and Stadler assured me the Vatican would take steps to protect its own if it discovered someone was targeting members of the clergy.
I walked east along Via Sant’Anna in the shade of the Pope’s official residence and heard the sweet sound of a sung mass coming from one of the churches nearby. I didn’t know whether it was a service or a choral rehearsal, and it didn’t matter because the joy expressed in the harmonious chant lifted my spirits.
“We meet again,” a man said, and I looked round to see Father Vito, the priest I’d met in the Garden of Secret Confession. He hurried along the street to catch up and fell in beside me. “I’m glad to see you again. I sought guidance after our last conversation. You seemed conflicted.”
I curled my lip. Most people are conflicted. Was I any more torn than the average person? It seemed to me as though this priest might be fishing for a vulnerable soul.
“Your faith once comforted you,” Father Vito said. “It can be a safe haven for you again. If you embrace it.”
“Do we deserve comfort if there is hard work to be done?” I asked. “Difficult work. Shouldn’t we be troubled by leaving it undone? Shouldn’t we feel conflicted, guilty even, about so much left undone in the world?”
He put his right hand on my shoulder and gently pulled me to a halt.
“Are you the Christ?” he asked, and the question surprised me. “Are you the one to carry all the world’s burdens?”
The heresy of the suggestion was quite shocking.
“Yes. It is a ridiculous idea. You are not the Savior. You can take comfort in the faith of your forefathers, knowing all is as it is meant to be and that the great plan is unfolding as it should.”
“And suffering? Injustice? Poverty? Pain?” I responded.
“Can you see the end of time? Can you peer into the beyond?” Father Vito asked. “Your conception of the world is limited. Only the Almighty sees and knows all. Only the Almighty can judge what should be and what is necessary for each of us, now and forever.”
He held my gaze.
“Rest your troubled soul, Mr. Morgan. Find your way back to your faith.”